Flamboyant, Affectionate, Absurd
by taylorpotato
Summary: Sherlock and Greg go to a pub, hoping to catch an arsonist. They end up getting absolutely plastered instead. Really weird sex ensues. Explicit.


_**Fair warning: drunk sex, daddy kink, Sherlock is ridiculous and Greg is far too suggestible for his own good.**_

You'd never expect it, but Sherlock Holmes is a _giggly_ drunk. His usually frigid demeanor dissipates entirely. He becomes flamboyant, affectionate, and absurd.

"Noooo! Delete it!" Sherlock hiccups.

He reaches for Greg's mobile, but Greg holds it just out of reach. They're sitting at a small table in a crowded pub. Greg has just managed to film Sherlock singing _Satellite of Love_. He's putting it on youtube, or he's going to die trying.

"Why? You've got a beautiful voice," Greg grins.

"You're just saying that."

"I'd never lie about something so important."

"I hate you." Sherlock manages to keep a straight face for about three seconds before he deteriorates into another fit of laughter.

Greg doesn't even know what's so funny, but he's laughing too.

Supposedly, they're here on a case. But Greg figures they stopped trying to do anything productive around pint number four. That's when Sherlock started to get silly. Maybe that's when both of them stopped caring about the arsonist they were hoping to find in this particular pub. Nobody knows that they're here anyway. It's not like Greg's going to get in trouble for slacking off. And Sherlock doesn't even technically _work_ for the Met. So he's got nobody to answer to for a night of debauchery.

"D'you know what I think?" Sherlock asks when he catches his breath.

"What?" Greg raises his eyebrows.

"I think—I'm drunk."

"I'd agree with you."

"Are you drunk?"

"A bit."

"You should… you should drink more. I don't want to be the only one," Sherlock blinks lazily.

Greg can't argue with that sort of logic. He gets another round for both of them and settles back down at their table.

They're in the corner of the room, sitting side by side rather than across from each other so that they have a better view of the crowd. That little detail probably doesn't matter so much anymore, but it would be awkward to change seats after already spending half the night like this.

Greg takes a long swig of beer. He's got a pleasant buzz going. The world's a little blurry at the edges. He feels warm. Unrightfully content. Sherlock's grinning stupidly and Greg is half tempted to snap another photograph.

"Do you want to play deductions?" Sherlock licks the beer foam off his lips.

"I doubt I'd be any good at it."

"You are _supposed_ to be a detective. Just try it. Do me," he grins.

"All right… I deduce that you don't drink that often, because you're a bloody lightweight," Greg chuckles.

"See? 'S not so hard. Um… you haven't slept with anybody since you and your wife separated which was… over four months ago, wasn't it?"

"Ouch, mate. Let's not go there," Greg shakes his head.

"Sorry."

"No you aren't."

"I'm not at all." Sherlock takes another sip of his beer and looks entirely too pleased with himself. "Your turn."

"Fine… I deduce… that it's been even longer for you than it's been for me, because you're an arrogant sod that would usually rather insult somebody than get off with them."

"Wroooonnngg," Sherlock singsongs.

"Oh really?" Greg raises his eyebrows.

"Two months." Sherlock holds up two fingers to further illustrate his point.

"With _who_?"

"Why does it matter?"

"I don't believe they're a real person."

"His name was Allan. He had blonde hair… I really don't remember much about him besides the fact that he had a lovely cock. I was _really_ high that night."

"God, you're a mess," Greg snorts.

Lots of people think that Sherlock is asexual. Greg has always suspected otherwise. And he figured if Sherlock went for anybody, it'd be a bloke. He dresses so nice. And he doesn't seem to get along with women. Well, he doesn't really get along with anybody—but he tends to do a little better with other men.

Usually, everyone assumes Greg is straight because he was married to a woman. It's like nobody's ever heard of bisexuality.

"All right…" Sherlock straightens up and sways in his chair slightly. He narrows his eyes at Greg, as if scanning for clues. After a moment he smiles. "I bet you like to be called _Daddy_ in bed."

Greg almost drops his drink.

"What?" He gapes.

"I'm right, aren't it?" Sherlock drags his teeth across his lower lip. Cheeky bastard.

"I have no idea where you would even get that from."

"It's _obvious_. You've got a raging authority complex, but you also like to take care of people. You're always trying to save _me_… plus you started breathing faster when I said that and your um—pupils dilated."

"You're drunk," Greg says dismissively.

"Then maybe you should take me home and put me to bed."

It's difficult to tell whether or not Sherlock's having it on. He looks serious enough. He leans an elbow on the table and rests his chin on his hand. He looks up at Greg from underneath his eyelashes.

"I'd be such a good little boy," Sherlock drops his voice low so it's almost a purr.

Fuck if that doesn't go straight down to Greg's cock, which is twitching with interest, saying—_yes Greg, take the psychopath home and screw his brains out, that's a fine idea!_

"You can't be serious." Greg says it more like a question than anything else.

"Oh I really _can _be…" Sherlock slides his hand onto Greg's knee underneath the table.

If Greg were a better man, he'd say no. They're both too drunk to make any sort of rational decision. They work together. Sherlock is fourteen years younger than him. Sherlock is also the sort of lunatic that tends to put human remains in the microwave as a science project. There's no way this isn't going to end horribly.

But Greg has never been very good at critical thinking when it comes to sticking his cock in crazy. It's worse if he's had more than a few pints. Lust tends to trump most logic-based arguments. It's _easy_ to just let Sober-Greg deal with whatever problems Drunk-Greg's sex drive might cause.

So he stands up and pulls on his jacket.

"Where are you going?" Sherlock's face falls slightly. He must think that he lost whatever game he's been setting up.

"Home. Come on."

The younger man grins. He stands up and slides into his Belstaf coat. He's a bit wobbly. So Greg wraps an arm around Sherlock's waist as they stumble out to the kerb and flag down a cab.

XxXxX

"_Oh_," Sherlock moans.

He's sprawled face down across the mattress. Greg is kneeling between Sherlock's spread thighs. He's got three slick fingers inside the younger man.

It's a lot more fun to watch Sherlock squirm than Greg would ever admit. And Sherlock _is_ rather lovely—when he's not talking. Greg really can't get over what a lush arse Sherlock has. It's not fair. The rest of him is so skinny.

Greg slides his fingers in a bit deeper and Sherlock makes a little choked noise.

"_Daddy_," Sherlock whines, "that feels so good. Can I have more?"

Greg is going to hell, because he's never been harder in his life. Sherlock bucks his hips, trying to push back onto Greg's fingers and perhaps rut against the sheets a little bit. It's more than anybody should be expected to cope with.

"Don't call me that," Greg mumbles. But he withdraws his fingers. Sherlock rolls over. He grins and pulls Greg down on top of him.

"Why? You like it."

Then they're snogging. It's wet, and filthy, and Sherlock's lips are so fucking soft how is that even possible?

Sherlock flips them over. He reaches for the condom on the bedside table and tears the foil. He rolls the condom onto Greg's prick. And this is actually happening, isn't it? _Jesus_.

Sherlock is straddling Greg's hips. He grabs hold of Greg's cock and holds it steady as he starts to sink down onto it. The head of Greg's prick slides forward. They both groan. Sherlock doesn't waste any time. He lowers himself onto Greg's cock pretty much all in one go. His mouth falls open.

"Oh, Daddy, _yes_," he gasps.

He starts to roll his hips. Everything is a mess of sensation. Friction. Sparks of pleasure. Body heat.

Intellectually, Greg knows that he's had a lot of sex before. Those times were probably fun too. But right at this moment, Greg's fairly certain that _nothing_ has ever felt so good.

He doesn't remember grabbing Sherlock's arse, but that seems to be what's happened. And if his hands are already there… well… Greg gives Sherlock a smack and the younger man lets out a little breathy sound.

"That's it," he murmurs, "I've been such a naughty boy. _Spank me_."

"You're ridiculous," Greg can't help but laugh.

And then Sherlock is laughing too. It really shouldn't be sexy. But _God_, it is. Sherlock hasn't stopped moving. If anything, he's going a bit faster. He's shameless—fucking himself on Greg's cock, moaning loud enough to wake up the neighbors, and still letting out the occasional helpless giggle.

Greg's blood feels too hot under his skin. His nerve endings are vibrating. The alcohol and the sex haze have collided to incapacitate him entirely. He's glad Sherlock decided to be on top. He probably wouldn't be able to move right now.

Sherlock leans forward a little bit and the noises don't exactly get louder, but they hit a lower register. And Sherlock's not playing around anymore. He's extremely focused—trying to rock back on Greg's prick _just right_ so that he trembles and whimpers.

"_Daddy_," Sherlock breathes. "You're so big. I can't take it."

Greg can't even hope to hide the pang of arousal that shoots through him. He doesn't know if it's the words, or Sherlock's voice, or if his brain has melted and literally everything turns him on right now. Fuck it. He might as well just play along.

"Yes you can," he squeezes Sherlock's arse for emphasis. "You're taking it right now, like such a good little boy. I'm proud of you."

It's worth it. Sherlock swears under his breath. His hips stutter slightly. Then he picks up the pace. He's a wreck. His pale skin is flushed and covered in a thin sheen of sweat. His dark curls are a frizzy mess. Every breath he takes comes out as a pathetic little groan.

Greg can feel him starting to tense. He slides one hand down to wrap it around Sherlock's throbbing prick. He does his best to jerk the younger man off without interrupting his rhythm.

"It's too much," Sherlock is almost sobbing.

"But it feels nice, doesn't it, pet?"

"Yes—but I'm going to—ah—"

"That's it. Come for Daddy. He wants to _feel_ it."

And Greg's dangerously close to the edge. The heat curls in his stomach, the tension gathers. He's nothing but potential energy and building pleasure. It feels so bloody _fantastic_. Sherlock is incredibly tight and warm. Greg wishes it would never end, but he won't be able to hold out much longer.

Greg strokes Sherlock's prick just a little bit faster. The younger man lets out a loud, broken noise.

"Daddy—I'm—oh _fuck_, I'm coming—"

Sherlock tenses for a moment, then he shudders and lets everything go. He clenches around Greg's cock. His ejaculate dribbles messily over Greg's hand. He slumps forward and collapses.

Greg wraps his arms around Sherlock's waist and thrusts up into him just a few more times before he's there too. The pleasure crashes through him. What's left of his brain drowns in a massive dump of reward-chemicals. It takes him a few moments to remember how to breathe. His heart pounds wildly.

Sherlock lifts off him enough so that Greg's prick slides out. The younger man rolls onto his side. Greg ties off the condom and throws it in the little rubbish bin under his desk. He curls around Sherlock. They share a few lazy kisses before the exhaustion crowds in and drags them under.

XxXxX

Bright morning sunlight streams in through the window. Greg must have forgotten to close the curtains before passing out. His head is pounding. His mouth tastes like an ashtray.

What the fuck happened last night?

He gets his answer when a naked body presses up against him.

The memories swim together, fuzzy and surreal. No. It can't be. He opens his eyes and—yep. That's definitely Sherlock Holmes, lying halfway on top of him.

Sherlock's eyes are closed. Maybe he's still asleep. Greg tries to shift away, with ideas about taking a shower to wash the shame off. But as soon as he starts to move, Sherlock rolls fully onto him, practically pinning him down.

"Um, Sherlock?"

"Sleep now," the younger man grunts. "Wake me up for blowjobs no earlier than noon. You can have your moral crisis after I leave."

"Blowjobs?"

"You don't want one?"

"Of course I want one."

"Then shut up and stop moving. Good pillows stay still. "

Greg snorts, but he curls his arm around Sherlock's narrow waist and settles in again. He closes his eyes and smiles. When his head stops hurting, he can contemplate the utter lunacy of his existence. Right now, maybe he'll just go back to sleep.


End file.
